


Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

by Irollforinitiative



Series: Theirs Is Not to Reason Why [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Finally a bit of fluff again, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Reunions, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irollforinitiative/pseuds/Irollforinitiative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft will do anything to get Greg back.  Anything. That kind of desperation always seems to get rewarded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: This is the final chapter. A follow-up series is soon to come.

_Sherlock's love hurt so much more than his scorn ever could.  If that was true, how much more would Greg's love hurt right now?_

Mycroft stepped away from the hospital room, unable to think properly, and walked straight into his mother. Genevieve Holmes huffed and frowned at her eldest son.

 

"Mycroft what is wrong with you? You nearly ran me down." she frowned disapprovingly at him. 

 

Mycroft sighed, "Sorry, Mummy.  I had something on my mind."

 

Genevieve reached up and put her hand on Mycroft's cheek lovingly, "My poor baby.  Still worried about that silly man? Darling you deserve someone that you truly love and adore.  And you'll find it,  I'm sure."

 

Mycroft stared at his mother as she shuffled into Sherlock's room and began fussing. Suddenly something seemed to break in him. "Shut up!"

 

She turned around and frowned, "I'm sorry?"

 

"I said, my darling mother, shut up. I've already found the kind of love you're talking about and I let him get away. And now I have to remedy it.  Somehow."

 

"But Mycie, he didn't even know about your tattoo." She crossed her arms, confident in her point.

 

"Yes, but he knew _me_. The essence of me.  Not some damned tattoo but the distilled ether of my being." Mycroft had stopped shouting and suddenly seemed to be talking more to himself than his mother. "I know about your conversation with him and I know you meant well but budge off. He is the man of my dreams and the love of my life.  I chose him above my own brother and I can't even bring myself to think about that, but I did.  I loved him enough to do that and I cannot let him go."

 

Genevieve held her hand to her mouth as her eyes welled, "Oh God, Mycroft.  I'm so sorry.  I didn't know…"

 

"I know.  You couldn't have.  Sherlock only knew because he has seen me with and without Greg. Even I thought I was better off without him until just now."

 

She reached out and squeezed Mycroft's hand, "I'm still not sure I fully understand, but you love him. Go and get your man."

 

Mycroft nodded and grinned wide.  He bounded out of the hospital, elated with the promise of winning Greg back and pulled out his phone.  He dialed Greg and brought the phone to his ear to listen to it ring.  But it didn't ring.  Instead there was a long, loud beep and a calm voice informing him that the number was no longer in service.  Mycroft felt ill.  The only reason he wouldn't ring through was if Greg had changed his number.  And the only reason Greg would change his number was…was something Mycroft couldn't truly consider. A tiny voice in the back of his head said it anyway. Greg didn't want Mycroft to call him.

 

Desperation flooded Mycroft's veins and he set his jaw, getting into his car and demanding to be taken to New Scotland Yard at once. Mycroft tapped the handle of his umbrella and muttered things under his breath. His staff was still giving him a wide berth so no one even made eye contact during the drive. As soon as the car stopped, Mycroft was out of it and storming into the building.  Before he could turn down the hallway to Greg's office he had to screech to a halt.  Sally was blocking his path.  Mycroft huffed a sigh.

 

"Do please get out of my way, Donovan." He tried to push past her.

 

She held her ground. "Not a chance, sir.  You need to leave."

 

Mycroft raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Oh? And why is that? Am I no longer allowed to see my significant other?"

 

Something inside Sally snapped. "Since fucking when?! Since you left him?! Since you called him fucking _Gregory_ again?!"

 

Mycroft stared at her, unable to speak.  His face was stony and only mildly offended; his eyes showed his heartache.

 

Sally smiled, proud of herself. "Speechless eh? Good.  When you two split he was heartbroken but he kept believing you'd get back together.  Even after the shit your mother said to him.  But last night, calling him Gregory…" she looked down and shook her head, suddenly shy and fidgeting, "I've never seen him so upset.  Okay? So just go."

 

"I have to get him back." Mycroft's voice was surprisingly small.

 

Sally shook her head. "Not today.  Not here.  Not on my watch."

 

Mycroft stared at her for a long moment and considered fighting back.  He was Mycroft Bloody Holmes.  If he desired to get past her and speak to Greg he could.  It would take little more than a word. But he didn't.  Instead he accepted it.  Accepted that he had failed.  With a sigh Mycroft gave Sally a curt nod and turned on his heel, stalking away. He slammed into the black car and demanded to be returned to the hospital. When he got there he tromped into the room to find his mother saying her goodbyes.  His anger melted away.

 

Genevieve smiled at her son. "Didn't go well Mycie? It's okay.  It will be okay."

 

Mycroft smiled and nodded. "Thank you.  Are you leaving us?"

 

"Yes.  Things back home have called for my attention and I know my baby boy is okay." She reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock's. He grinned up at her. 

 

Mycroft pulled her into a hug and sighed, reveling in the familiar scent of her perfume. "Goodbye Mummy.  You will be missed."

 

She patted his cheek and hugged both boys before heading down the hall and into the elevator.  Both Holmes boys remained silent so John broke the silence.

 

"So this, hating other people and human contact thing, that's _so_ not from her." John laughed once.

 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before breaking out in a peal of laughter. "No.  No she was always so kind.  Very proper, yes, but kind.  Father was the one that taught us men didn't cry."

 

"Or hug." Mycroft cut in.

 

"Or laugh." Sherlock grinned.

 

"Or smile." Mycroft's smile faded away as did Sherlock's as they remembered the tyrannical figure that overshadowed their youths.

 

John's smile faltered a little watching the brothers remember.  He spoke quickly, "I bet he just _loved_ to hear you were taking it up the bum."

 

Mycroft stared at him for a moment before laughing hysterically. "God I cannot imagine what his reaction would have been.  I'm sure he knew but I never told him."

 

Sherlock wiped at tears of laughter. "No.  Instead of telling him Mycroft married a poor young woman who was terribly in love with him."

 

John gaped. "No! You were married?"

 

Mycroft nodded, still smiling. "Yes. Rather unhappily.  It kept my father contented.  The day he died was the day I requested a divorce.  It wasn't more than a legal contract by then, we were both seeing other people."

 

"Does Greg know?" John asked, his face thoughtful.

 

"Yes.  It's something we bonded over actually." Suddenly Mycroft's smile faded. "I need him back. I do not know how to go about it but I need it."

 

John moved around the hospital bed and put a hand on Mycroft's arm. "How can we help?"

 

"Rewrite time?" Mycroft laughed and shrugged.

 

John stepped back and sat on Sherlock's bed. "Why don't you go home and get some food and sleep and let us handle it."

 

Mycroft shook his head. "No. It is not your responsibility. This is my life and--"

 

Sherlock cut him off. "Oh shut up. You know why you chose him? Because I never give you anything back.  Never.  Ever. My whole life you've been the one to take care of me.  For once, just once, let me repay the favor.  God knows it won't happen again."

 

Mycroft stared at him and nodded. "O…okay?"

 

"Good.  Then it's settled.  Go sleep.  I will fix this." Sherlock smiled proudly.

 

Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle as Sherlock suddenly resembled the child he used to be. "Okay.  Thank you, brother."

 

Mycroft slowly made his way to his flat, feeling like he was in a dream.  Somehow it no longer felt like his flat. When Greg moved in it had finally become a home, but now it was even less a house than it had been before.  It was a shell he could pour his body into. A shell that could house him for the time being.  But it wasn't home.  Greg was his home. And his phone was unreachable.  A disconnected number. 

 

Mycroft fell onto the sofa and thought about what he could do to fill his time. He looked to the television set and realized all the movies he and Greg had purchased while together were still there.  Greg had not taken them. Not even the black and white ones he'd bought for Greg as presents.  It should have made him feel sad, but somehow it made him feel happy instead.  He felt connected to Greg even if he was not. Mycroft put one in and started it.  He did not watch the film.  Not really.  After a while he started wondering what else Greg had left.  He started walking around the flat searching for bits of Greg. After the films he found a blanket that Greg had brought from his flat.  Mycroft wrapped it around his shoulders. Wrapped in the blanket he continued to search.  Next he found the one picture of them that existed.  Neither man was inclined to allow pictures, but they had used Mycroft's mobile and snapped a picture together on a whim just after finishing unpacking Greg's things.  It was grainy and a bit of Mycroft's thumb covered the lens as the two of them had held the phone out to take the picture.  But still, Mycroft had framed it and it lived on a bookshelf. 

 

On that same bookshelf were all the books Mycroft had bought for Greg. There was a little of everything.  It was his attempt at getting Greg to read more. After a struggle Mycroft had bought Greg a Raymond Chandler novel.  Finally Greg had found a genre of literature that he truly loved.  Greg had read and reread that one novel at least ten times in the short week it took for Mycroft's order of more novels in the detective genre to arrive at the flat.  Mycroft picked up the now tattered book.  It was covered in coffee, tea, food, and even a little blood.  It was a week of Greg's life condensed on the pages of one book that he had loved. Mycroft held it to his chest. Fetching Greg's favorite tea mug that had been left and a bag of Greg's favorite crisps, Mycroft returned to the sofa and wrapped himself in the blanket to read with "Road to Bali" on in the background. 

 

Mycroft smiled when he heard Bing Crosby start to sing.  Greg loved the movie just for the singing bits.  He'd said that Bing Crosby might not be much to look at but then he opened his mouth and everyone fell in love.  Mycroft tried to draw parallels between that and things Greg had said about him on the times when he'd demurred his physical attractiveness.  Opening up the Chandler book, Mycroft's face fell.  Just inside the cover were random doodlings and scribbles in Greg's hand.  At the top of the page were their names with hearts drawn around them.  It looked like a teenage girl's school book.  But what struck him the most was the note at the bottom of the page.  It read, "Mycroft, stop trying to snoop through my things.  I love you.  You don't have to snoop.  That being said, stay far away from my sock drawer.  Damn. Now that I've said that you'll go looking there." Mycroft stared at the page and frowned.  The pen, it was different from the rest of the scribbles.  Those were in the cheap ballpoint they used at the Yard.  But the note was a purple fountain pen.  Just like the one by the phone to take messages.  It had been green until it was replaced just before Anthea went missing. 

 

The note was recent.  Mycroft set the book aside and struggled out from under the blanket, nearly running to the bedroom and tearing open the drawer that had served as Greg's sock drawer.  Mycroft paused. How had Greg known Mycroft liked to poke through his things when he worked late?  It seemed everyone who spent time with Sherlock picked up some of his observational skills.  Mycroft smiled softly and wondered if Greg had left whatever he'd wanted him to find.  When his hand met a solid object he knew that Greg had.  Pulling out the small box, Mycroft frowned.  Greg had no way of knowing when Mycroft would look through that book and find the note. Why had he done it? With a frown and a sigh he opened the small box. 

 

Inside was a simple silver ring and a note.  With a shaking hand, Mycroft opened and read the note.  It was short and only said, "Mycroft, whenever you find this and whatever the circumstances prompted you finding this, the situation is the same.  I want to marry but you I didn't know how to ask.  So I figured I'd let you accidentally ask yourself.  What do you say?" Mycroft stared at the ring and felt like vomiting.  Greg had left it.  He'd left the ring. Whether he wanted Mycroft to find it or whether he'd wanted to distance himself from anything that reminded him of Mycroft didn't matter now.  What mattered was that before all of this, Greg had wanted to marry him. Mycroft closed the box and held it tight to his chest, returning to the sofa and curling up under the blanket with the book by his head.  Thus cocooned in memories of Greg, with a dinner of only crisps, Mycroft fell into a fitful sleep on the sofa.

 

Greg sat on the sofa of 221B and shivered.  The flat was bloody cold.  It was his third day there but only the first time he'd been properly there at night.  First it was Eve, then it was Mycroft, now it was just him.  Pulling his socks up higher he suddenly wished he'd taken his blanket when he left Mycroft's flat.  But at the time he'd chosen to leave it.  Some part of Greg thought that if he left bits of himself there for Mycroft to find it would make him miss Greg.  Now Greg just wanted the blanket and to pretend like it hadn't happened.  Like he was just Gregory and had never been Greg. He sighed and sipped his beer.  Mycroft hadn't come to him.  In a rash moment he'd changed his number that morning but he was sure Mycroft would still come.  Would still try and fix things.  But he hadn't. It served to prove how right Genevieve Holmes had been.  Mycroft didn't truly love Greg.  It seemed that he'd finally accepted that as well.  Greg curled up into a tight ball on the couch and sighed.  He was saved from his increasing depression by a text message from John.

 

_Two things:  Light a fire, that flat gets bloody cold on nights like tonight.  Also, tomorrow about six you should come round.  It will be all clear and Sherlock wants to see you.  I think he wants a case.  Don't give him a case. -JW_

 

Greg smiled and went about finding the necessary things to build and light a fire.  He was surprised he hadn't thought of this on his own as he warmed his hands and responded to the text.

 

_God how did I not think of doing that. So warm.  And I'll do that.  No cases though. -Lestrade_

_Thanks.  They want to start him on physical therapy and if he has a case he has an excuse to not do it.  He's a bloody idiot. -JW_

_Physical therapy? Already? -Lestrade_

_His foot twitched today when the nurse bumped it. -JW_

_Holy shit that's amazing.  Isn't it? -Lestrade_

_It means if he works hard he might get full use back.  But it's Sherlock.  So of course it's a grand issue.  Maybe you can talk some sense into him tomorrow. -JW_

_I'll do my best, mate. -Lestrade_

Mycroft woke up on the couch the following morning when the alarm on his phone went off.  He untangled himself from the blanket and showered.  While dressing he checked his phone again and found that he had a text from Sherlock.

 

_Be here at 5:45 exactly.  We need to talk. -SH_

Mycroft did not bother with a reply.  He'd be there and Sherlock knew he would be. The day seemed to drag, yet when Mycroft looked up at the clock and saw that it was already 5:15 he felt like the day had disappeared. Gathering his things he made his goodbyes and left, feeling strangely anxious to see Sherlock. A sudden demand on his time like this surely meant that Sherlock had figured out how he could get Greg back.  So it was with a spring in his step that Mycroft showed up at Sherlock's room to find Sherlock sitting grumpily in a wheelchair, fully dressed like normal.  Mycroft couldn't help smile.

 

"You're up." the surprise in his voice was evident. 

 

Sherlock scoffed, "Obviously. You're as astute as ever I see."

 

"Sherlock did you bring me here just to ridicule me? Because if so, I've got places I could be." Mycroft crossed his arms. 

 

Sherlock sighed and his shoulders drooped a little.  "Fine.  Sorry.  I'm getting discharged in a few hours and I do not look forward to being unable to move around my own home normally." he stared at his legs.

 

Mycroft felt a pang of guilt. "I'm still sorry."

 

"I know.  But that's surprisingly on topic.  I think I've figured out how you can get your Detective Inspector back."

 

Mycroft felt his heart leap. "How?"

 

Sherlock stared up at Mycroft evenly. "Why did you choose him?"

 

"I don't want to talk about that.  It was a split second decision.  No real thought or reason." Mycroft looked away and fidgeted a little with the beetle cufflinks from Greg that he was wearing once more. 

 

Sherlock looked to the cufflinks and sighed. "There was reason, what is it."

 

"No, Sherlock, I'm not going to talk about it."

 

"Bloody tell me why you choose him over me!!" Sherlock shouted.

 

It was 6 o'clock.  Greg had just reached the room when he heard Sherlock shout.  His initial reaction was to flee.  To hide from Mycroft and come back later.  But curiosity got the better of him.  The question that he'd been asking himself since that day was about to be answered by Mycroft himself.  Greg had to know the answer. 

 

Mycroft, unaware of Greg's presence just around the frame of the door responded to Sherlock's anger with anger of his own. "Fine! You want to know, I'll tell you!" he took a shaky breath, "Because I cannot live in a world where he doesn't. Losing him in my life, losing his love, losing my own _happiness_ …it was worth it.  Because I know he's still alive.  I know that somewhere that heart is beating. That face I so endlessly adore is speaking and smiling and simply living. I love you Sherlock, you are my brother.  But I've already lost you once.  And as wretched as it was, my first thought upon hearing you were dead was how happy a part of me was that I still had Greg.  You are my family but I can live without you.  I've experienced it and God knows that until recently we were vague inclinations of familial fixtures in one another's lives.  But Greg?" suddenly Mycroft's voice got quiet, "I may ache incessantly right now, but I can go on living.  I'm not sure I could if he were dead."

 

Sherlock stared at Mycroft evenly and nodded. "Okay.  Now you have to tell him that."

 

"You're not mad?" Mycroft looked up with a furrowed brow.  

 

Sherlock only rolled his eyes. "Grief has made you ever so dumb.  No, Mycroft.  I already knew and understood your reasons.  But you needed to understand them.  And so did Greg."

 

Mycroft shook his head. "I can't tell him that.  It's deplorable."

 

"Mycroft, stop being an idiot! I used past tense.  He _did_ need to hear.  Not that he still needs to.  I am, at least, still intelligent enough to plot.  Lestrade is just outside the door."

 

Mycroft turned towards the door, horrified.  Greg wondered for a moment if he would be able to still make a run for it, but quickly realized he didn't want to.  With eyes bright from restrained tears, Greg let his body fill the doorway. He and Mycroft stared at each other for a long moment until Sherlock broke the silence.  

 

"And this is my time to go find John so that we may leave. Excuse me." Sherlock wheeled himself past Greg and out of the room. 

 

Suddenly Greg and Mycroft were alone.  Mycroft's grief felt oppressive as he stared at the man he so loved so he looked away.

 

"I'm sorry." was all Mycroft could think of to say.

 

Greg shook his head and sniffed as he gave Mycroft a soft and watery smile. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

 

"The things I feel, things I think, about why I chose you, they're deplorable."

 

Greg stepped closer and laid his hand on Mycroft's elbow. "No they're not.  They're human. And yeah, maybe at first I felt guilty too.  But both Sherlock and John said they'd have done the same thing. And…and I realized I would have too."

 

Mycroft looked up from his shoes and felt hope blossom in his chest. "You would have?"

 

"Yes. Because I love you, Mycroft.  I love you enough that when I thought I'd lost you I went a bit mad.  For God's sake I hate my ex wife, but I went to her to feel needed because it hurt so much to not have you."

 

Mycroft reached out and pressed a hand to Greg's cheek. "But your phone number? And the things you left at the flat?"

 

Greg blushed. "I'll admit the number thing was a bit dumb.  I felt so heartbroken at the Gregory thing and then the cufflinks.  I was scared, Mycroft.  It's terrifying to realize someone loves you enough to choose you over their family." Greg caught Mycroft's chin when he tried to look away again, "And as for the things I left, I left them _for_ you to find. I wanted you to remember me."

 

"What about this?" Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box, "Did you still want me to find this?"

 

Greg smiled sadly and nodded. "Yeah.  I did.  And I still do.  But not now." he reached out and took the box. 

 

Mycroft nodded and let his hand fall from Greg's cheek. "I entirely understand." his voice had become proper and clipped again. 

 

"Hey now," Greg caught Mycroft's hand and brought it back up to his cheek, "I thought we broke you of that habit a while ago.  No being proper.  Not with me. I still want to marry you, Mycroft.  But I want to ask you when things are happy again, okay?"

 

"Does…does that mean you wish to begin our relationship again?" Mycroft let his thumb stroke across Greg's cheek.

 

Greg stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist. "I don't think we ever really ended it.  Just a quick hiccup."

 

"Then I'll have your things moved back in before dinner."

 

It was Greg's turn to look unsure. "You…you want me to move back?"

 

Mycroft smiled and examined Greg's face as he ran his fingers through Greg's hair. "Of course I do. I never wanted you to leave.  Not really. If you can live with the ferocity of my love for you then so can I. Because I do not know how to live without you."

 

Greg tried to think of something to say, but came up with nothing.  So instead he stretched and closed the short distance between them to kiss Mycroft.  It was much like their first kiss and Greg found himself overwhelmed with the softness and warmth of Mycroft's mouth.  Oh how he had missed that mouth.  Mycroft held Greg's hair firmly and tilted his head further to kiss him deeper.  He was unable to suppress a groan as his tongue slid against Greg's. It was like the gaping hole in his chest had been filled again. Greg held him tighter and sighed through his nose as he pulled Mycroft's lip into his mouth and sucked on it.  Mycroft began to let his hands drift down Greg's back when a throat cleared behind them.  They stopped kissing but continued to hold one another as John and Sherlock smiled at them from the hall.  John was pushing Sherlock's wheelchair and grinning cheekily at them. 

 

"Come on you two.  No need to get arrested for public indecency when you've got a whole flat to yourselves not far from here.  Besides I'm sure you'll want to see the fit Sherlock will pitch when he has to get helped into a cab." John chuckled. 

 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and glared at John, but it was halfhearted anger.  John was the only one that was able to get away with talking about Sherlock's paralysis and a part of him actually appreciated how casual John was about it.

 

Mycroft released Greg but kept a hold of his hand. "Yes, indeed that would be terrible press for both of us."

 

John and Sherlock led the way as the four of them left the hospital that had practically been their home for the greater part of the past two months.  As they walked Greg leaned close to Mycroft to whisper.

 

"I love you, Mycroft."

 

Mycroft grinned and his eyes tried to flutter closed at the feeling of Greg's warm breath against his ear. "I love you too, Greg."

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Dylan Thomas poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"
> 
> "And you, my father, there on that sad height,  
> Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.  
> Do not go gentle into that good night.  
> Rage, rage against the dying of the light"


End file.
